King Without a Castle
by Syntyche
Summary: Accused by Anora of conspiring with an apostate, Alistair is convicted and banished to the Aeonar. It seems that said apostate isn't quite ready to let the ex-Templar face the Mage's Prison alone, but will Morrigan and company reach the imprisoned Warden before something truly terrible happens?
1. Somebody's Crying

The Muse is inspired by odd things. This entire story came about from reading the codex entry on the Aeonar and the titles of Chris Isaak's greatest hits cd. The outline was written in five minutes on a napkin while I was supposed to be working and most of the story was written on the back of receipt tape. That being said, I hope it's not a pathetic attempt at a decently-written story and that you enjoy!

**Title: **King Without a Castle

**Author:** Syntyche

**Rating: **T for violence and adult-type things.

**Disclaimer:** Dragon Age belongs to people that are not me, but I'm super-glad they let me play with their toys.

**Summary:** Accused by Anora of conspiring with an apostate, Alistair is convicted and banished to the Aeonar; but it seems that said apostate isn't quite ready to let the ex-Templar face the Mage's Prison alone … Alistair, Morrigan, Flemeth, Party

**Reviews:** Yes. Please. With Alistair on top. (Or bottom, if you prefer. lol.)

**Author's Note:** I've played with some of the dialogue because I like the way certain lines sound, even if it isn't necessarily how the conversation options fall in the game. I wasn't being lazy (I have no aversion to listening to Alistair repeat his lines over and over), it's just how I chose to utilize the dialogue in this story.

**Author's Note 2**: I named my warden Ishmael for the simple reason that choosing the 'Call me Ishmael' dialogue amuses me. A little literary humor, if you will.

**Author's Note 3:** Alistair angst abounds, so if an angsty and regret-filled ex-Templar bothers you, proceed at your own risk.

Long blocks of _italics_ are flashbacks.

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King without a Castle

By: Syntyche

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One: Somebody's Crying

He walked aimlessly, gravel crunching under his boots, the night breeze stirring his short hair. As he walked, he remembered, and as he remembered he shuddered harshly, not from the cold air flitting across his body, but from a chill that had birthed darkly in his soul barely a week past.

oooooooooo

_She entered his room and he smiled, more than ready to give in to the simple pleasure of her company before the hell of morning arrived with its Blight and Archdemon and darkspawn horde. _

"_I see you can't sleep either … " _

_But an uneasy thought surfaced and he added, "I also saw Morrigan outside your room earlier, and the look she gave me … that was icy even for her. Is something up?"_

_Immediate concern rumpled her already weary brow. "You can't sleep? Are you all right?"_

"_Not really." He was honest with her as he always had been, even if it took a little getting around to at times - but really, it wasn't like he'd wanted to brag about or even mention being, well, a royal bastard, wouldn't have brought it up at all if they hadn't gone looking for Arl Eamon. As a matter of fact, he spent most of his time trying to __**forget**__ his tarnished lineage, not proclaim it to anyone within earshot._

"_But you're changing the subject," he persisted stubbornly, tenaciously, dragging himself back to the unpleasant topic at hand. He was edgy about anything having to do with the witch, especially now as the end of their quest neared; he wasn't foolish enough to believe that Flemeth had sent her daughter with them out of charity or even necessarily for their protection._

"_This isn't about me, this is about Morrigan," Alistair sighed. "I'm tired, but I'm not stupid," he added wearily, knowing too well that the opposite was what most people believed about him. Thank the Maker that both wardens had jointly agreed to support Anora keeping the throne; a 'clown king,' as Shale had suggested he'd be, was the last thing the battered peoples of Ferelden needed while they struggled to move forward in a Blight-ravaged land._

_And now __**he**__ was distracting himself, too many thoughts swirling 'round in his mind. He really needed, really __**wanted**__, just to sleep, if only for a few hours before marching to Denerim. "What did she want?" he asked doggedly. _

_Ishmael looked just as unhappy as he. "Alistair, we need to talk."_

"_Oh. I guess whatever Morrigan had to say, it's big." _

_He folded his arms over his chest, stiffly formal in the Warden armor retrieved from Sophia Dryden's corpse at Soldier's Peak and offered to him by Levi, but he hadn't gotten around to undoing it yet. He'd just been standing numbly by the bed since returning to his room after speaking with Riordan, letting the elder Warden's words sink in, twisting his gut sickly as he dully contemplated the barefaced and unavoidable fact that at least one of the three Wardens would die tomorrow. _

_Alistair couldn't help but feel betrayed, just as he had when Duncan had first revealed to him a few short months ago his newly shortened lifespan and that his hopes for a large family - or even simply __**one**__ child of his own - had also vastly shrunken. _

_The Warden brushed his sadness aside sharply and forced a causal tone, striving for a light moment - after all, that was what he was good for. Possibly __**all**__ he was good for, even though his beloved Ishmael made him feel otherwise. His uncle certainly hadn't been quiet in his judgment of his nephew's consent to concede the throne of his father - it almost made Shale's opinion of Alistair look sterling. _

_But Ishmael was waiting for him to continue, her features tight and worried. _

"_So what is it, then?" he asked with a small smile, shelving his dark thoughts for a later time. "Rats running amok? Cheese supplies run low? I can take it." _

"_I love you. You know that, right?"_

_The uneasy feeling tightened into a tense, writhing knot in his stomach. She was clearly unhappy with what she'd come to do, and suddenly he wondered if she too had finally given up on him, couldn't take his pathetic nature anymore, was here to end it and just be free of him … _

"_Could you make it sound more ominous?" he forced past his dry mouth. "Tell me, already." _

_She didn't cut any corners. "I need you to do something you won't like." _

"_I don't care for the sound of that," was what he said as he fought to quell the shaking in his hands. He laced and unlaced his fingers apprehensively. "What are we talking about, exactly?"_

"_I need you to take part in a magic ritual." _

"_Oh?" Some small relief flooded his weary senses; apparently she hadn't realized his worthlessness yet. He was a lucky man. "Something Morrigan cooked up, no doubt. What do you need me to do?" _

oooooooooo

Alistair blinked at the memories echoing in his mind, the memories of _**that**_ night. So ready, so agreeable. He remembered he'd been pathetically eager to please.

What a fool he'd been.

oooooooooo

"_You need to sleep with her." _

_It was pronounced so matter-of-factly that he actually laughed, leaning against the bedpost casually. _

"_Cute. This is payback, right? For all the jokes?" All of the bad, really wrong jokes they'd shared in his tent late at night, giggling like small children under the blankets at the horrible things Morrigan would do to Alistair if they let her - being turned into a frog the least of them. It had been a silly way to relieve stress while they traveled, chuckling quietly as they drifted off to sleep carefully entwined with each other. It was an inane thing to joke about now, but he supposed if he could look for amusement tonight, so could she … _

_Only … she wasn't teasing him. _

"_But you're not joking, are you?" he realized aloud, his dread suddenly tripling as horror and loathing joined the unhappy party. "Wow, be killed by the Archdemon or sleep with Morrigan. How does someone make that kind of choice?" _

_Implications started to sink in, his brain working overtime, tearing away from thoughts of the two of them wrapped around each other in the night, disbelief slowly taking over as the primary emotion in the whirling maelstrom of feelings he was already trapped in. _

"_You're not actually asking me this, are you? What kind of ritual is this, anyway?"_

"_It's some kind of ancient magic. Flemeth's, probably." _

"_Well, that's reassuring. Wait, no it isn't." He couldn't stand still, had to pace, but then all of the sudden he couldn't find the energy to stand any longer and he sat, his head falling into his hands before he looked up quickly, his thoughts tumbling over each other in their haste to trip out his mouth. "Look, even if I was willing to entertain this idea … and I'm not saying that I am … is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure … ?"_

"_You need to trust me." _

oooooooooo

He had. How could he not?

oooooooooo

"_I do trust you. I'll … I'll do it," he agreed reluctantly, wondering if choosing the Archdemon over Morrigan wouldn't work out better for everyone in the end. But one look at the odd combination of relief and sadness mingling on his Warden's face and he hurried on, "Where is she? Let's go and get this over with before I change my mind."_

_She took his hand, leading him carefully back to her room, and then there were a few babbled words he'd choked out, and Ishmael left, regret in her eyes but also determination, and he knew exactly how she felt - he hadn't wanted to die, wouldn't have let her sacrifice herself, but this was so __**wrong. **__Maybe Zevran did this sort of thing all the time with whomever would agree to it, but Maker, that wasn't how __**he'd**__ been raised … _

oooooooooo

_And if I have my way, you'll be the last._

He'd said that to her on their first night together. The words echoed in his head now, mocking him, digging at the dark patches he was sure had grown on his soul since that night. Not only had he broken his quiet vow to his Warden, he'd done so with _**Morrigan**_. There was just no coming back unscathed from that.

oooooooooo

_The witch was pulling on his hand, leading him to her room, already reaching to unclasp his armor even though they were barely in the door; he shrugged her off harshly and set to removing it himself with a barely restrained snarl. The smell of incense was sickeningly cloying and he glared at her hatefully as he stripped down to his smallclothes, not quite ready to be completely exposed to her just yet. _

_Morrigan fixed on him calmly, ignoring - or perhaps feeding on - his unhappiness. _

"_Why do you look at me so?" she questioned languidly, innocently. "I am doing this to help __**you**__, Alistair, you __**and**__ the one unfortunate enough to love you." She let her golden eyes trail deliberately over his tightly muscled, mostly naked body with a small smile. "Or perhaps she is not as unfortunate as I had suspected." _

"_I'm so glad you approve," he muttered irritably, quite unsure of where to place his hands that wouldn't look like he was hiding himself from her, even though that was exactly what he wanted to do. Wandering around Fort Drakon in his underwear was __**nothing**__ compared with a moment of the witch's smirking scrutiny. _

"_It certainly does make this much more pleasant," Morrigan agreed, almost wistfully lost in a fond memory from her past. "It has been … awhile."_

"_Really?" Alistair sneered contemptuously. "What, when you had all of us rakish men to choose from during our travels? Zevran, at least, should have been indiscriminate enough to satisfy your needs. And Oghren, too, possibly, if he was drunk enough - but when is that ever not the case?"_

_Her expression hardened at his scornful derision. "You are more foolish than even I thought if you will mock the one who is saving the life of your precious Warden."_

_The witch's biting words stole away his resistance within the space of a heartbeat. His head dropped repentantly to his chest as he swallowed back further sharp words and instead forced himself to growl out an apology that he didn't mean but humbled him enough that she would accept it._

"_That is not bad at all, little Templar," the witch taunted. "You grow more appealing by the moment when you allow your truly groveling and pathetic nature to show though; it reminds me how truly powerless you are and I prefer malleability in a man. _

"_Lie down," she commanded, and she watched to make sure he complied before stripping out of her own clothes slowly, peeling off layers with the flawless grace of one well practiced in the arts of seduction, her slim fingers lightly grazing her body as she undid ties and buckles, arresting his attention and though he wanted desperately to pull his eyes away he couldn't... _

oooooooooo

The thought of _**her**_ tempting him now made his mouth dry, his breath quicken. He felt ashamed, he felt filthy, but he couldn't stop remembering …

oooooooooo

_He settled himself hesitantly on the bed, feeling hopelessly, blushingly awkward … with his Warden it had been so natural, so easy, but now Morrigan was moving toward him, her hips swaying hypnotically in the candlelight, and the bed dipped under her weight as she sank down by his upraised knees._

_He didn't know if he could do this … _

oooooooooo

He froze, realizing that even the memory of those moments in the night still had an effect on him as his body tightened expectantly, already forging ahead to what had come _next_…

oooooooooo

_He backed up slowly across the bed, feeling the softness of the sheets sliding across his bare skin as he retreated but she followed: predatory, hunting, close to the kill, the smell of incense about her so strong that his already nauseous stomach rebelled and he thought he would have vomited but the witch surged forward against him, forcing her lips over his, her tongue flicking against his clenched teeth impatiently. _

"_Must you make this difficult?" she breathed against him, rocking impatiently. "You will not hate this quite so much as you imagine."_

"_Just do what you have to do," he ground out, hissing into her mouth, "and be done with it."_

_He felt her smile. "I like a challenge," she murmured back coldly as she dropped her naked body hard against his hips, forcing a rough gasp from him that granted her access deep into his mouth, which she exploited greedily, taking, plundering, without thought or consideration. _

_Alistair felt his anger rising along with a twisted stirring in his body - he didn't want this, he didn't want __**her**__, but he couldn't stop the building arousal that was growing steadily within him. The witch was all around him, scorching him like fire and he wanted nothing more than for it to end, just end - it felt so wrong, he felt so used - and he couldn't even find his ever-present sense of humor, couldn't make a joke, could only give in to the resentment and desire and hopelessness, letting his anger take over at what he was doing, what he'd been asked to do, to literally choose between life or death but not just for himself … _

"_You like a challenge, do you?" he growled, rising up suddenly, flipping the witch over, pinning her to the bed roughly. Her eyes widened and her feral smile grew; she had never seemed so evil to him as she did in that moment as she opened her venomous mouth and crowed in delight._

"_So, the little Templar is ready to play, is he?"_

oooooooooo

Alistair's eyes snapped open suddenly - he hadn't realized they'd been closed - and he saw that he was still standing in the courtyard outside the palace in Denerim. He'd meant to go out for a walk around the marketplace, mostly quiet in the night but for a few guards patrolling the square and the occasional drunken reveler, but apparently he hadn't even made it beyond the courtyard walls.

This was nothing new. He took a lot of walks now, his mind continually drifting back to a place he rather wished it wouldn't. It had been such a small thing in the end though, hadn't it?

oooooooooo

_One night - barely an hour of his life spent before bruised, battered, panting, they'd called it quits, having apparently accomplished the necessary. Morrigan had healed her own injuries, surprisingly offering to do the same for him, but he had shrugged her off forcefully, throwing on his clothes and buckling himself into his armor without looking at her again. He pushed from the room roughly, closing the door on her deliberately lounging nakedness; wanting nothing more than to find a scouring pad and scrub his skin raw. He would go to battle tomorrow and maybe the darkspawn would just find the sight of him so hilarious they'd simply laugh themselves into surrender rather than attempt to fight an appallingly pink Warden so clearly their inferior. _

_Ishmael hadn't been waiting for him; perhaps she felt as guilty and dirty as he did. He pointed his abused body in the direction of the kitchen, shambling as clumsily as the resurrected corpses they'd encountered with alarming frequency in their travels. _

"_Alistair?" _

_He blinked past a cut across his eyebrow that was dripping sticky blood into his eyes. "Wynne?" _

_The elderly mage was peering at him in concern, the lit candles along the wall casting flickering shadows onto her lined face. "Are you all right? And don't say 'no,' I can clearly see that you're not."_

_He was so exhausted, in body and in soul, but he summoned an amused smile for his favouritist sneaky mage. "Then why in Andraste's name would you even ask?" _

_She put her hands on her hips, clucking at him like a mother hen and shaking her head sternly. "You think you can sass me because our journey has nearly ended, do you, young man?"_

"_Of course not, Wynne," he replied, surprising her by not playing along with their longstanding banter; he merely gave the mage a short incline of his head as he moved to brush past her, tired beyond his means but needing to be clean. "Please excuse me."_

_Her gentle hand on his arm burned, even through his armor - to be touched so affectionately by someone so kind, so __**good**__, after having his body smothered in darkness, almost unhinged him. _

"_I have to go," he said hastily, almost desperately, ridiculous and utterly unwelcome tears crowding into his eyes as despair warred with the fiery mortification raging through him. _

"_Alistair." _

_He froze even though he was ablaze with shame, burning where he stood. _

"_What's happened?"_

_He said the first thing that popped into his mind, praying desperately to a Maker that had already ignored his pleas once tonight that she would believe him: "Oh. I, uhhm, fell down the stairs."_

"_I see," she nodded, unquestioning, already assuming the role of leader as she directed briskly, "Well, come with me."_

_Alistair almost felt bad about the easy way she had accepted his answer - Maker, everyone really __**did**__ think he was a clumsy oaf…_

_Wynne led him to the kitchens, smiling kindly at the late night servant bustling around as she commanded the Warden to sit on a bench she toed out from under the table. There was no arguing with her - he'd tried before, and she __**always**__ ended up pulling out the "weak old woman" trick. He gave in every time. He sat, uncomfortably awkward as his armor stifled him, wishing he'd just gone to bed. _

_Or maybe not. Dark hair splayed across his chest was still too close to the surface for him to think about sleeping. _

_Alistair closed his eyes as the mage dabbed a cool cloth against his burning forehead, feeling filthier than he had in months and months of traveling across muddy Ferelden plains, through crazy-tree forests and traversing underground caverns filled with darkspawn and giant, disgusting spiders._

_Wynne gently healed his wounds - those she could see, anyway - and then directed him firmly to bed, telling him cheekily that, "Wardens who think they're going to fight the Archdemon tomorrow need their rest, too."_

_And then she'd retired to her room and left him sitting there numbly. As soon as she'd disappeared, he roused himself enough to ask the servant about water for a bath, murmuring that he needed only to be pointed in the right direction and he could fill the bathing pool himself. _

_And he did, monotonously filling the bucket from the well in the courtyard, bringing it in, down seven steps to the common bathing room, empty the bucket, up seven steps, back to the courtyard, drop the bucket into the darkness, bring it back up, down seven steps, empty the bucket, up seven steps … _

_He didn't care that he was wearing himself out. He didn't care that the bath had an unpleasant chill to it when he finally stripped off his armor and underclothes and slipped under the water, letting it rush over his head and echo loudly in his ears. He didn't care that he should have been sleeping. _

_He just didn't care. _

oooooooooo

And he still didn't. He leaned against a nearby wall, his knees weak and his shoulders trembling.

_And if I have my way, you'll be the last … _

Alistair slid down the cold stone wall of the palace and rolled to his side, shoved his balled-up fist into his mouth, and wept.

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Please review if you'd like to see more!


	2. Only the Lonely

With most grateful thanks to bergamot29 - without your solitary review I should have given up anyone wanting to read this further, and not bothered to continue posting it. So thank you for taking the time to comment, I truly appreciate it!

King Without a Castle

By: Syntyche

Two: Only the Lonely

The water was hot, almost scalding on her naked skin, and Anora wondered for a moment if she shouldn't ask one of the servants to add some cold water to bring the temperature down. Already her skin was reddening as the heat lapped against her, covering her almost to her shoulders as she sank deeper into the bathing pool. It had taken many servants quite a long time to fill the pool to her liking, but Anora had been Ferelden's queen for many years, and the servants of Denerim palace had long grown accustomed to her preferences.

The bath was large enough to accommodate two. Anora was not surprised to find that she missed her late husband; it felt so empty without Cailan here, laughing, teasing, his blonde hair plastered against his skin in an innocent halo even as he snuck a wicked hand over to tweak her breast playfully.

Even remembering his phantom touch sent a thrill of desire through her, a desperate and gasping breathlessness that she would never again feel his hand, that the hands of her lovers - for they both had plenty - would never match up to _**his**_ hand caressing her, his hand sliding over her thigh …

Anora gasped sharply and sat up, unsurprised to see that she was crying, silent tears that dripped down her face in a most unseemly way while doing absolutely nothing to ease the agonizing clenching of her heart at the loss of her husband. She wrenched her emotions in fiercely; she needed to remain in control, she could not afford to fall apart.

Not while that _usurper_ continued to stay in the palace. Not while Eamon and others loyal to Maric still contested that the throne belonged to _him_:

Her husband's bastard half-brother.

And her father's murderer.

Emotions firmly in grip now, Anora trailed her hand lightly over the water, flicking the drops from her fingertips and watching idly as the widening rings spread across the surface. Her husband gone, her father gone, and Alistair had gratefully absconded the throne - so _**weak**_ - content to remain simply a Grey Warden and staying discreetly with the other Warden and the ragtag they had somehow cobbled together to defeat the Archdemon.

Content for now. But she would not allow him to rest in peace when he had caused her so much pain.

Anora herself had conversed occasionally with the female Warden - a Cousland, she had learned from the old mage Wynne, and she'd known instantly she would have to watch out for that one, too. Anora was not so foolish as to dismiss the idea of a union between Alistair and the Lady Cousland and a resulting coup; Ishmael Cousland and Alistair both had supported Anora at the Landsmeet, but the queen knew that Arl Eamon still had aspirations of putting Alistair on the throne and the Arl also had the ear of the Lady Cousland.

Fortunately for the queen, many of their small group had dispersed, off on their own personal quests. Of the odd group that had stumbled into Denerim, other than the Wardens only Wynne and the elf remained and for that the queen was grateful, for that small group had somehow proven that they could defeat the seemingly insurmountable, and she had no doubts that if Alistair _**had **_had a mind to take the throne for himself, their bedraggled party would have seen it done.

And she wasn't yet convinced he wouldn't change his mind. Perhaps it was a little of her late father's paranoia rubbing off on her, but she preferred to think of it as tying up loose ends.

And the Lady Cousland was a loose end that needed to be taken care of.

Anora had found that although she seldom appreciated other females as company, she actually liked Ishmael Cousland - brave, determined, and damned if she didn't get things done; which was exactly why she needed to be taken out of the picture. That, and the fact that Anora knew the two Wardens were intimately close, and she would not allow Alistair a single pleasure that she herself was now denied. A situation was arising in the northeast that demanded attention, and tactically and personally Anora had already decided the Cousland was the best choice to send.

Which just left Alistair as the final loose end.

Voices floated in through the barely open doorway of the dressing room adjoining her personal bathing chamber, two maids scurrying about their business, readying the queen's clothing.

"… told the Warden that I was only _**too happy**_ to tend to anything he might need … "

A light trill of laughter followed from the younger of the two. "You'll have to let me know if there's anything I can help with … "

Anora's mood darkened further.

OoOoOoOo

She didn't know where he was - probably out for one of his walks. Alistair had started taking long forays into the night, disappearing for hours at a time, and she knew this because she continually kept tabs on where he was and who he was with.

The important thing now was that he was not in his room, because that was where she was. Anora did not know what she was looking for, she only held on to a certainty that she would find _something _because he _had to be guilty of something._

His room was sparsely furnished and there weren't many places to search. Anora rifled through the desk drawers and found nothing of interest, though she did find a book on the Theirin royal history on the night table that only increased her suspicion that Alistair had not permanently given up his aspirations for the throne.

She espied his pack in the corner, well taken care of but clearly very used. She pushed back the flap and peered inside, pushing things around as necessary as she surveyed the contents: an amulet, very old; a few battered journals that she discovered detailed in several different hands the party's historic trek across Ferelden; a couple of pairs of tattered socks with Alistair's initials neatly stitched near the top; and a curled sheath of papers upon which she recognized her husband's name.

Anora glanced around surreptitiously, immediately feeling very foolish for doing so. She was the _**queen**_, for Andraste's sake, and didn't need the permission of anyone to be here, least of all a weak-willed bastard prince. She immediately brushed aside her hesitation and pulled the papers from the satchel, unfurling the crumpled missives with precipitously nervous hands.

Anora scanned the papers. The first letter was in a foreign script, seemingly innocent, from Empress Celene of Orlais offering aid to Ferelden. The second letter brought first a pained smile as she realized that she and Eamon had shared the same concern for her husband's presence on the battlefield - predictably ignored by Cailan - but as she read further a fury ignited behind her eyes that would not abate.

… _And yes, perhaps when this is over you will allow me to bring up the subject of your heir. While a son from both the Theirin and Mac Tir lines would unite Ferelden like no other, we must accept that perhaps this can never be. The queen approaches her thirtieth year and her ability to give you a child lessens with each passing month. I submit to you again that it might be time to put Anora aside. We parted harshly the last time I spoke of this, but it has been a full year since then and nothing has changed. _

_Please, nephew, consider my words, and Andraste's grace be with you. _

Humiliation flamed across her cheeks that Cailan had dared to utter a word of her sorrow to his uncle. Eamon would pay for this, she vowed. This was the second instance of him wanting to put her aside - he would _**not**_ have the opportunity to try again.

The final missive had been crumpled at one point but laboriously smoothed out, and still smelled faintly of flowery perfume (she thought; if she imagined hard enough she could indeed smell the light fragrance) Though this letter was signed with the same royal name as the first she had read, this was printed in a woman's delicately looping hand.

_Cailan, _

_The visit to Ferelden will be postponed indefinitely, due to the darkspawn problem. You understand, of course? The darkspawn have odd timing, don't they? Let us deal with them first. Once that is done we can further discuss a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden. _

The floor seemed to drop out from beneath her small feet as blood rushed to her head, roaring in her ears and her father's warnings about the Orlesians suddenly didn't seem so far-fetched - indeed, they had even reached her husband. She had no illusions that the "permanent alliance" Celene had sought with Cailan involved a joint heir - indeed, why else would these three letters be bound together? A common thread united them, and Anora's breath left her in a rush as she realized how tenuously close she had come to losing her throne had her foolish husband survived to continue his increasingly treacherous relationship with _that woman_.

The papers crackled in Anora's clenched fist. Her earlier lust for her husband disappeared within the blaze of her wrath, hate swiftly replacing the love she had felt scarcely an hour before.

That these papers should have fallen into Alistair's hands could not have been simple coincidence. Anora's shrewd gaze narrowed as she considered the very plausible possibility that Cailan had met with Alistair at Ostagar and given him the documents, revealing the queen's barrenness but the need to keep Maric's line on the throne. Could her husband have planned for the possibility that he would fall at Ostagar and sought to ensure some assurance his father's line would not falter, even if it had to be continued by a bastard prince and an Orlesian whore?

Blasphemy.

Even worse …

"Treason," she whispered, her nails digging crescents into her palms.

She needed to be rid of Alistair permanently; it was the only way to halt Cailan's deceitful plans. But he was too well-known now to simply disappear: a hero of Ferelden, a Warden who had stood against the Archdemon …

The Warden who had _**killed**_ the Archdemon.

Killed the Archdemon…

There was something about that, she realized, something that triggered old, awed words of Cailan's trickling persistently through the red haze in her mind. A slow smile spread across her face. She had always been annoyed by her husband's fascination with an order of relics, but Cailan's hobby may well become the catalyst for tying up the last loose end.

She would need to check her husband's painstakingly detailed journals, but Anora was already planning out her strategy. She couldn't accuse Alistair of treason without dragging her own delicate situation out for the public to gossip over. But if she was right, if her memory served her correctly …

She knew exactly what do. And Alistair would be gone within the week.

OoOoOoOo

"I'm being sent to Amaranthine."

Ishmael said it flatly, striving to sound unemotional, but Alistair could see that she had been rocked by her queen's orders - she didn't want to leave Denerim yet. She didn't want to leave _**him**_.

Dirty, unclean, shame-filled him.

And _**that**_ gave him hope.

He held out a hand. "Come here, you," he said quietly.

She launched herself at him desperately, throwing her slim arms around his back, fitting perfectly against him now that they had shed their armor in the privacy of his room. By mutual design they were rarely alone together of late, but she had come to him in the library - where he was studying governance, of all things, for the simple reason that it had struck his fancy after the Landsmeet to do so; to think on the life he hadn't wanted but that, for the grace of the Maker, could have been forced upon him. She had found him, anxiously asked to speak with him, and so here they were.

It was awkward between them now but he gave her a warm hug as she shared the news that so deeply troubled her, and she laid her auburn head against his shoulder; for just a moment he could believe they were back on the plains, camped outside Orzammar where he had first shyly asked her to spend the night with him …

_Yes_, he reflected wryly, _surrounded by darkspawn, working toward a hopeless goal - _hopeless, or so they had secretly thought, a fear they never voiced aloud in the light of day but was ever hiding at the back of their minds, preying on them in their weaker moments.

Hopeless odds. Bloodthirsty enemies. So poor at times they couldn't afford to replace socks that could no longer even be mended.

Back when things were easy.

But this felt good, her body pressed into his; it felt sweetly natural.

"I am going to miss you so much," he murmured into her hair, and as he spoke the words he knew the truth of them. They'd been nearly inseparable since Cailan had first assigned them to the Tower of Ishal, and even now in their discomfort they had still taken refuge in knowing the other was near, sometimes only a room away; at times, he had lain awake at night, wanting to go to her, to touch and hold her, but so checked by his shame he couldn't bring himself to drag his tired body the few short steps to her room.

"Oh, Alistair," she sighed, regret heavy in her voice, husky with unshed tears. "I'm going to miss you, too."

The moment of her weakness passed swiftly; Ishmael brought herself firmly under control and backed out of his embrace reluctantly. Her pert nose wrinkled, disgust written clearly across her features as she plunked herself down on the chair by the bed.

"I don't want to go," the Lady Cousland sniffed petulantly, swinging her feet under the chair idly. It was moments like these, free of fear and sweat and blood, rare moments when she let a little of her childlike nature shine through, that he found himself thinking less of their duty, and more of a home, a family …

To distract his unrealistic thoughts, Alistair tore his eyes from his lover and knelt to fiddle with his boots, easing them off with a sigh and lobbing the stressed footwear into a corner with a dull thud.

"Hey," she said softly, and he slowly dragged himself away from his ruminations and busywork to glance at her inquisitively. "It's strange, isn't it, to have them gone?"

He knew what she meant. After being together continuously day after day, the splitting of their small group had left fractures in their lives that couldn't be filled until those missing returned. It had been an unusual and occasionally uncomfortable experience at first for the self-confessed utterly naïve ex-Templar to be so surrounded by such varied people after having been cloistered first within the Chantry and then sequestered even within the Wardens because Duncan had known of his royal parentage, but he had soon grown to rely on the other members of their small group. It had come as somewhat of a surprise to the shy Warden that their companions counted on him as well, and not merely for his impressive skill in battle, but for moral support, for amusement, for a smile when the stress of their quest nearly overwhelmed them.

"It is," he agreed solemnly, but proffered a small smile as he added, "I was getting so close at beating Oghren at his drinking game."

She laughed a little, swinging her booted feet, and acknowledged his statement with a nod. "He needed to go back to Felsi. I hope it works out for them."

"I don't know," Alistair said with a shrug, still kneeling a little awkwardly near the door but finding his unease fading as he watched his Warden tenderly, her short red hair bobbing as the chair she sat upon wobbled perilously with the unceasing movement of her swinging legs. "I have a hard time picturing him settling down."

"You know who I really miss, is Leliana," Ishmael sighed regretfully. "It was so nice to have someone who could talk about something other than killing darkspawn."

Alistair smiled, extending a bare foot for her perusal, wiggling his toes. "True. I guess I'm not much good talking about shoes and hair - but give me a good darkspawn-killing story and I'm all ears. But Lelli will be back soon, and maybe she'll have some fashion news for you."

Maker, this felt good, and it was so easy to talk to her, so easy to forget …

She stilled her fidgeting suddenly, a heaviness darkening her features. "Do you … miss Morrigan?" she asked hesitantly, and his relaxed mood slid away like darkness falling as the sun set.

"Do I … " he started faintly, searching desperately for a quick subject change, but she had already started down the path they'd been skirting and she wasn't quite ready to give it up now.

"Alistair, about the Morrigan thing … "

Dread licked at his stomach, filling his insides with twitching nausea. That's what they were calling it now? The "Morrigan thing"? Ishmael no longer appeared like a child to him and iciness washed over his body, chilling from his head to his feet, leaving him numb and trembling.

She easily saw his distress. "I'm sor … "

"It's fine," he said thickly.

"Alistair … " She didn't want to let it go, but nor did she want to pursue it. They both, desperately, just wanted everything to be the way it was ... before.

"It's fine," Alistair repeated gently; _**he**_ was the strong one now because he had to be. He should have been the strong one all along, he knew.

He held out a hand to Ishmael which she took with a strangled sort of gasp, back in his arms, frustrated tears long held at bay spilling from her eyes and soaking into the thin shirt he wore.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his chest. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Hush, hush," Alistair soothed, stroking her back lightly. "Listen." He waited until she lifted watery eyes to him, and he thought he might be drowning in them when he saw his own pain reflected there so clearly. He drifted callused fingers through her hair, a sudden overwhelming tenderness pulling his taut lips into a gentle smile.

"My indestructible goddess," he said fondly, and closing her eyes, she leaned into his hand, the damp tear tracks on her cheek pressing against his palm.

"Ishmael," he said firmly, and her eyes reluctantly fluttered open, fixed on him apprehensively. "You're here. I'm here. We're both alive; we did what we had to do."

She closed her eyes again. "I know," she whispered. "But it feels so wrong."

He couldn't form an answer that didn't sound trite, didn't sound like he was dismissing her anguish that resonated so clearly with him, so he said nothing; he simply held her as though he would never be given the chance again, trying to convey with his body what his mouth refused to say.

After a few moments that seemed to last an eternity, her green gaze flicked open, settled on him again, striving for the lighter tone they needed to pull them back from the edge of the precipice of despair upon which they were perched.

"Listen, I'll be back as soon as I can," she informed him with a small, tremulous grin, their masks settling firmly back into place: they had work to do. Their grief could wait. "Try not to get into too much trouble while I'm gone."

Alistair sighed expressively, rolling his eyes and spreading his arms helplessly while she giggled at his theatrics and tucked herself more firmly against him. He gave her a cagey smile and replied,

"I suppose it depends on what our illustrious queen has planned for me."

OoOoOoOo

Please review. Pretty please. : )


	3. Baby Did a Bad Thing

Author's Note: A little heavy on the angsty h/c to start, but it evens out in a bit. Maybe. ;)

King without a Castle

By: Syntyche

Three: Baby Did a Bad Thing

"_You show me mercy I would not have shown you … "_

_- Anora to Alistair after the Landsmeet_

OoOoOoOo

They came for him in the night.

He'd been deep within a dream about his interment (as he liked to think of it) within the Chantry - and how odd was that? He almost never thought on those days anymore, preferring instead to push aside the discomfiting memories in favor of focusing on his new life within the Grey Wardens. Even the scars he had garnered during that unhappy time had been crossed over by newer blemishes gained in the war against the Blight.

It may have been Ishmael's conspicuous absence that had triggered the non-darkspawn-related nightmares; he hadn't been able to sense his fellow Warden, so long a constant murmur at the back of his senses, since she'd departed for Amaranthine and he was feeling quite isolated not having her and the rest of their Blight companions nearby.

_Yes_, he would decide later, when he had relentless hours alone in desolation to reflect on this moment, _that's probably what it was_. His time at the Chantry had been an endless stream of misery and confinement, of bruises and welts and seclusion. And this particular dream had been about _that_ day …

They woke him before it got to the really bad part, but it was close enough that the gloved hands grabbing roughly at his biceps brought him stumbling to wakefulness in a panic, his arms flailing jerkily against their tight hold.

"Stop!" he gasped, wrenching away feverishly as he struggled to pry his clenched eyelids open to see what was _actually_ happening rather than what his exhausted mind was remembering had _already_ happened not too terribly long ago. His blankets were tangled messily about his hips, restricting his movement and adding to his distress. "Stop it, please!"

"Alistair Therin," a plodding voice intoned dully, seemingly unaffected by his panicked struggles. "Calm yourself and cease resisting."

He wanted to listen, he was _**trying**_ to listen, but his heart was racing so hard that he couldn't seem to breathe. Suddenly there was an explosion of pain against his cheek and he slumped back against the headrest, not realizing he'd been struck, only trying to comprehend why all at once his vision was dimming and the strength was fleeing rapidly from his weakening body.

His limp arms were locked onto roughly and he was hauled from his bed, shirtless and mussed. They marched him through the darkened hall and down the stairs to the throne room - empty save for the queen - and released him at the foot of the king's chair, stepping back to hover behind him pointedly. He stumbled a bit, still dizzy, aware just enough to feel humiliated at his complete lack of propriety. Thank the Maker he was at least wearing pants.

The queen, fully dressed and perfectly made up, was looking at him regally down her nose, clearly disgusted by his informal appearance but also, he suspected hazily, pleased that it added to her implying she had the upper hand. He hadn't known her long, but it had been enough time to see the frigid soul behind the already cool exterior.

"Alistair," she said imperially, perched ramrod straight on the throne, but twitching enough that even in his rumpled state he noted her unusual agitation, "do you know why you're here?"

His vision was clearing but he still had to squint to see her in the palace's evening lights. He wasn't amused to have been dragged down here at an unfathomable hour, disoriented and half-naked, and perhaps his irritation led to his reply:

"Literally or figuratively?" he questioned dryly. "Because I've been told that babies come from the Fade so that would explain why _**I'm**_ here but what about _**dwarven**_ babies since dwarves don't go to the Fade - "

Anora exhaled in an angry rush, and he found himself intrigued that she'd been so easily put off by his offhanded remark. He had only ever seen her exercise iron control, even in captivity at the arl of Denerim's estate; this fidgety, emotional Anora was new to him, and frankly, a little scary.

"You have the same unappreciated sense of humor as my late husband," she murmured stonily, glaring at him.

He hadn't known Cailan personally, had met him only a handful of times, but the disparaging remark against his half-brother still rankled him; the late king had treated Alistair the Grey Warden with kindness and respect - something the ex-Templar had rarely received in his troubled life. Anora's bubbling anger puzzled him with its vehemence, but he had already realized that she was a cold woman; indeed, her first act after he'd executed her father in the Landsmeet was to demand that Alistair relinquish to her all claim to the throne. No sadness, no regret, no anger. She'd simply moved on.

"You stand accused of conspiring with an apostate," she continued icily, as if her prior personal observation had never occurred, no emotion had shone through cracks however minor in her implacable veneer. "I believe you are aware of the ramifications of such a charge."

He was surprised that he _**didn't**_ feel surprised by her claim; in fact, he probably should have anticipated something like this from her. He wished he'd gone to Amaranthine with Ishmael.

"If you mean Morrigan," he replied drolly, already brushing her allegations off though something warned him that he was in very serious trouble, "the only 'conspiring' we did was to unite the very large and varied army currently assembled under your banner … Your Highness."

She fixed a calculating gaze on him, and he could see her anticipated victory lurking in her eyes. He shivered - it was a look he'd seen before on her father and it did not bode well for him. And to think, he'd once deeply admired Teryn Loghain for his tactical brilliance, before he and Ishmael had learned the quite harsh lesson that "retreat" was included in the teryn's Ostagar strategy.

"It is my understanding, Alistair, that the Grey Warden who slays the Archdemon dies."

A cold trickle of sweat slowly slithered down his back as her words sunk in. She gave him a look that was almost sweetly innocent, but he knew better, was just beginning to see how much trouble he was actually in.

"Was it not _**you**_ who landed the killing blow, Alistair?"

His mouth was dry. _**He'd**_ only learned of the true cost a few short weeks ago, and here Anora was already using it to bury him.

"How did you know that?" he asked faintly.

Anora laughed, mocking his shock with her trite tone. "My foolish husband was enthralled with the Grey Wardens, Alistair," she pronounced disdainfully, making sure he understood that it was not a fascination she had shared. From beside her she produced a thin leather-bound journal which she waved at him grimly. "He researched everything he could get his hands on, recorded it meticulously." She leaned back with a disinterested air, but he could still sense her spite. "It was inevitable that he would eventually discover the cost of killing an Archdemon."

From somewhere, he found his voice. "The Grey Wardens guard their secrets closely, Your Highness," he said softly. "Perhaps your husband was not the fool you so callously count him to have been."

She ignored his mild rebuke. "I asked you a question, Alistair: did you not land the final blow?"

He could not - would not - lie. If it hadn't been him, her suspicion would fall on Ishmael. "I did," he answered quietly.

Triumph flared in her burning eyes as she leaned forward eagerly, as ready to destroy him as her father had been the Orlesians thirty years prior. "Then how is it you are standing before me even now, Warden?" she hissed, and Alistair could not quite quell the shiver that persisted in racing under his skin. He hadn't even figured out what he was going to say to the Weisshaupt Wardens when that very same question inevitably arose; he certainly didn't have an answer prepared for his queen after being dragged from his bed in the middle of the night.

"Permit me to recount it for you, then," the queen continued smoothly, words prepared to damn him, rehearsed over and over before this moment, sliding from her lips. "A ritual, perhaps? In the dark of night … blood magic, possibly?"

Anger replaced the chill he felt as his gaze shot up to meet hers firmly, an eyebrow lifted mockingly. "Blood magic, Your Highness?" he questioned archly, the Templar in him rising swiftly and decisively to the fore. "Do you not know who I am?" he asked, calm but deadly serious.

OoOoOoOo

Anora watched Alistair straighten proudly at her accusation, observed his boyish features ripple and harden into those of a man who had fought many battles and seen much death - and kept his honour throughout. A warrior. A Templar. A Grey Warden.

A hero.

A king.

A rival.

She felt heat pooling in her stomach as she tried not to stare at hard muscles and tanned skin, fine features that resembled her late husband's to a point that was painful, but to look down on him as a ruler delivering his sentence. Anora rose slowly, loathe to give up her throne lest the man before her snatch it from her grasp, and descended the short steps until she stood just above the height of the tall Warden's head. She would not let him defeat her; her father's murderer _**would not **_sit on the Ferelden throne while she yet lived.

"Yes," she said lowly, meeting his hazel eyes with her dark glare firmly. "I know who you are, Alistair Theirin: you are the man who consorted with an apostate to preserve your own life and yet become a hero. You are the bastard who wants to be king."

Alistair's bright eyes flashed, his ire finally pushing to the fore. "That's not true - " he interrupted; she placed a slender finger against his lips and he stilled, twitching with anger as she added, shuddering at the contact,

"You are also the lover of the Grey Warden Ishmael - a Cousland, perhaps also with aspirations to the throne … "

"Anora, you're crazy!" Alistair interjected, jerking his face away from her hand. "We have no interest - "

"_**I'm**_ crazy?" Anora exploded vehemently. "Do you not think I can see how all of the pieces fit? Do you not think I am unable to decipher your intent? I shall not turn the throne over to apostates and murderers!

"Now," she said softly, and he could see the dangerous light burning in her unsteady gaze, "Alistair. Beloved of Ishmael Cousland in far off Amaranthine, surrounded by guards loyal to me; friend of Wynne the mage and Zevran the Antivan - both under my protection, under _**my**_ roof. Companion of Oghren the dwarf, Leliana the bard, Shale the golem, and the qunari known as Sten, none of whom are out of my reach,

"And so," she prompted quietly, and he clearly read the implied threat in her tone, "you are accused of conspiring with Morrigan the apostate witch in undertaking a dark ritual that would spare your life and yet allow you to slay the Archdemon. Such a thing is forbidden by Chantry law and you are to be sentenced immediately. The question I have for you, Alistair, is … were you acting alone in seeking out the witch, or did you have help from your … friends?"

Whatever else he may have been, Anora could see that Alistair was no fool and he had grasped the promise of retribution for all involved lying within her words. He hung his head, defeated, but said nothing.

"Were you acting alone?" she prompted archly, and he dared to lift his head and look her firmly in the eye.

"Yes, Your Highness," he answered sharply.

Anora nodded regally in satisfaction, the warm rush of victory flooding her body. "So it is done. Alistair Theirin, you are remanded to the jurisdiction and judgment of the grand cleric of the Chantry. I trust she will be able to pronounce a suitable sentence for one who has so blatantly and selfishly turned his back on the very law he once sought to uphold."

Her soul crowed in delight at the wash of paleness that stole across the features so like her husband's, though she turned away as her guards hauled the Warden out, content to simply savor her victory. Anora smiled as they hustled Alistair from the throne room; the Warden was clearly in shock and that was exactly how she'd wanted it. Had he known in advance what she had planned, had he time to prepare a defense, there was a chance that even he would find a way to wriggle out of her snare and she could not allow that. Everything had been planned to last detail. Of course the grand cleric had a suitable punishment for Alistair - she and the queen had already discussed in detail the appropriate sentence. And though she was unable to coax any additional details from the head of the Chantry, Anora had picked up on the fact that bad blood existed between the old woman and Alistair, and the grand cleric seemed almost gleeful at the thought of the one-time Templar being returned to her.

Anora could breathe again. Her primary challenger was gone; her father's murderer would receive the harsh justice he had earned. It had been fate that one of the castle's serving girls had seen Alistair enter the witch's room the night before the battle of Denerim, and it hadn't taken much to decipher what had happened - especially considering the events that had followed and the notes she had uncovered in her husband's journal.

She felt no remorse at threatening Alistair with the lives of his friends if he failed to accept her terms; she was the agent of justice, and justice must be served. And if her rival and the murderer of her father was being sentenced to a life worse than death …

… well, that was simply the icing on the proverbial cake.

OoOoOoOo

A letter was promptly dispatched from the palace to the Warden Commander at the Vigil, written in an unfamiliar and somewhat unsteady hand as though the sender had been required to dictate quickly:

_My dearest Ishmael,_

_It is with deep regret that I inform you that I have been recalled for a time to Weisshaupt. I shall contact you again once my duties allow it._

_Yours in haste, but yours ever, _

_Alistair_

OoOoOoOo

The candles sunk into the wall recesses had burned low but weren't out yet, which surprised him because it felt like he'd been here for days. Maybe he had; he wasn't entirely certain.

The woman facing him didn't cackle - she wouldn't, of course, because it wasn't _proper_ - but as she stroked his sweat-soaked hair he could sense the satisfaction emanating from her in waves.

"The Maker has returned you to us, Alistair," she said sweetly, her wrinkled fingers tugging the cropped tawny spikes sliding across her palm gently. He shuddered at the touch but couldn't find the energy to raise his head to acknowledge her. "Truly, you have come full circle."

True indeed. He'd even spent much of his time in the Chantry within this very room - though at the time, caning had been their punishment of choice for unruly - or in his case, bored and overly-talkative - students.

"I see you've improved your methods," he bit out wearily, jerking his chin toward the barbed whip curled neatly on a hook nearby, still glistening with his blood in the dim light.

She nodded in acknowledgment at his observation. "We have grown wiser since the … incident … with the Circle Tower - a situation I believe _**you**_ had a hand in resolving." She circled him slowly, her eyes flicking around the room at the various instruments of _persuasion_ patiently waiting for apostates and maleficar. She herself had chosen a simple routine of punishments for the ex-Templar standing before her, his arms chained high over his head; they did not need him to confess to any wrongdoing - the queen had assured her he had already done that - but that did not mean that she could not take her old and bitter frustrations at Duncan out on the one who had been forcefully Conscripted from her by the late Warden Commander.

She continued, "We have decided that mages need a firmer hand - and that also shall apply to those who _**tolerate**_ reckless and unapproved behavior from mages, as well."

Alistair snorted disdainfully and _Andraste's flaming sword!_ it hurt past the swelling in his face. Blood dripped from his nose in sticky patters onto his naked chest, adding garishly to the sluggishly congealing red streaks already scoring his skin there.

"A firmer hand?" he questioned stuffily, fully allowing his disgust to color his words. "You've already got the mages _**and**_ the Templars leashed so tightly it's a wonder they don't unite against _**you**_."

Baiting her was not something he _**should**_ do, but it had always been hard for him _**not**_ to, especially when he'd once been dreadfully expecting to have the capability for independent thought eventually stripped from him and replaced with a dependence on lyrium.

She scowled at him so fiercely he thought she would strike him herself, but he knew deep down that she wouldn't; she had templars to do her dirty work for her.

"You have shared our secrets, you have consorted with vile apostates," she announced sharply. There was no pity nor fondness in her demeanor when she added, "You were once one of us, Alistair, destined for a life of meaningful service to the Chantry, yet you threw it all away."

He stared at her then, dumbfounded, squinting through his blurred vision at the pale oval of her face. "And you don't think helping to stop a _**Blight**_ was a worthwhile endeavor?" he asked dryly.

"Knowing that you sold your soul to an apostate to accomplish it?" she countered pointedly, "Do you?"

He fell silent, ignoring her as he realized there would be no reasoning with her - though he'd pretty much come to that conclusion as soon as he'd been delivered to the Chantry and they'd immediately sent him down here to the punishment quarters. Anora had well and truly screwed him, and he almost had to admire her ruthless attention to detail; she certainly was Loghain's daughter, insanity and all.

He waited uncomfortably while the grand cleric - all the way here just for his benefit, wasn't that lovely? - simply watched him. But his knees were getting excessively tired of holding his weight up; he wasn't exactly a small man even when he wasn't wearing massive armor that weighed more than Oghren.

"Just kill me and get it over with, I'm sure you have better things to do," he sighed impatiently, even as he mourned the loss of his friends and companions, his beloved.

She smiled.

"Death would be too sweet a release for you, Alistair," she said plainly, and she watched with greedy eyes as the templars came for him again as scheduled, as they unhooked the manacles and forced his sagging body into a chair in the darkened corner. She listened as his hoarse screams bounced off the stone walls of the chamber, and the small part of her still capable of compassion mourned that he had not been the first, and he would not be the last: there was too much darkness in the land for the Chant of Light to overcome without a little assistance. Some questioned Chantry methods - the Rite of Annulment, for example - but those who led knew what needed to be done, what sacrifices had to be made.

It infuriated her that Alistair had kept up with his studies even after being Conscripted into the Wardens, somehow mastering the skills of the templars without a dependence on lyrium. If word of that got out, spread somehow to other templars, she suspected she would have her own version of the pathetic Mage's Collective on her hands. The templars _**must not**_ be allowed to function without a lyrium dependency; there would be no controlling them otherwise.

And the Chantry needed to keep control.

She heard a growl from Alistair that ended in a choked gurgle and wondered if she should feel more than a detached pleasure at his suffering; pity, perhaps? Regret? The queen had promised a very large donation to the Chantry for their assistance in dealing with the troublesome Warden but the grand cleric had been only too happy to receive a lost one back (though she still accepted the donation, of course.)

His cries soon quieted to whimpers and she marveled at his endurance; she wanted to break him, yes, but only enough that he could make the journey to the Aeonar without causing his escort any trouble.

She found herself conflicted and realized that she would need to meditate on the appropriate lines to draw, how far she should go to punish wrongdoers of a non-apostate sort.

For more would surely follow.

OoOoOoOo

"… _can't you ever give a straight answer?"_

"_I used to be able to, but the Chantry beat it out of me."_

_- the Warden and Alistair_

OoOoOoOo

Please review! I feel like I'm kind of going out on a limb with this fic but the plot bunny refused to be silenced so here it is.


	4. Two Hearts

Thank you, thank you for taking a moment to review, it is greatly appreciated since this, to me, is such an out-of-the-way story and there are quite a few amazing writers in this genre. It's a little daunting to be in such prolific company, but on we go.

Mild spoilers for _Witch Hunt_.

King without a Castle

By: Syntyche

Four: Two Hearts

Someone was coming.

Morrigan cocked an ear, listening fiercely in the still air for she took _nothing_ for granted now, not the rustle of a decaying leaf nor the snap of a dry twig; not the caw of a distant crow nor the whisper of the wind.

Not the presumed naiveté of an ex-Templar.

And especially _not_ the affection of her mother.

She had always been cautious, for she had lived a life of hardship and continual adaptation simply to survive both her mother's merciless lessons and the challenges of the Korcari Wilds. Yes, she had always been cautious…

Now, she was paranoid.

There was no other sound that reached her hearing but she was already alert, aware that something had disturbed her finely honed senses and she would be foolish to ignore it. The witch hastily put out the small fire she'd used to cook a modest dinner and scattered the remnants that indicated anyone had stopped in this secluded area.

Morrigan rose and stretched, sneering distastefully at the wretched wave of exhaustion flooding her limbs. Day after day of near-constant watchfulness had worn down the razor's edge of her reflexes and strength, particularly in her … delicate position and she was finding herself increasingly weary. She had many long months of pregnancy facing her, and she almost - _**almost**_ - wished she hadn't been so hasty in giving up what small security and rest there had been in traveling with darkspawn-sensing Wardens.

But she could not have stayed with that small group, even had she the desire to. She could not remain in any place for long, not while her baby grew within her womb.

And not while her mother lived.

Ishmael Cousland had believed Flemeth defeated when they had slain her dragon form and retrieved her true grimoire, but Morrigan had known her mother's demise was no more than temporary. She had now spent many weeks studying Flemeth's writings, trying to decipher the deliberately garbled words of the old woman, and she had learned of spells and plans that had both fascinated and terrified her, as well as lustful ruminations on Flemeth's many lovers and the history and ultimate endings of the daughters who had preceded Morrigan.

And there was more, much more; dark writings from a darker mind, and _these_ were the promises Flemeth intended to keep that had set Morrigan on her path of constant movement. Her hand drifted to her belly, flat yet, and she again promised her child she would keep it safe at any cost to self. Morrigan had all her life been very selfish, with no reason to change, but something about the tiny life within her and the knowledge of what her mother intended to do with that life had softened the icy rim around her heart, had instilled within her a desire to do something for one other than herself.

Morrigan continued to listen until she heard it again - the far off crunch of boots on dry grass. She licked her dry lips and murmured quiet words, her voice snapping off in irritation as a yawn interrupted her spellcrafting.

_Really, this is getting out of hand_, she thought disdainfully, despising her newfound weakness yet unable to blame her babe for causing it. She shook her head sharply and muttered the spell again, gratefully feeling her bones shifting and changing shape, her long, elegant fingers stretching into wings as black as night that lifted her now-smaller body up onto the overhanging branch above her.

The noise of heavy, booted feet was drawing closer and she surmised there were four or five of them based on the sounds. They were not trying to be silent but they had scarce reason to in this area of Ferelden; little moved here other than creatures already indigenous to the forest and wandering bands of Dalish that rarely stayed in one place for long.

There was no road to speak of, simply an overgrown path that had once been heavily traveled years before but now was seldom traversed, and Morrigan wondered what business other travelers would have this way; perhaps there was a slim chance these were the elves she was searching for?

But alas, the party she saw were not the Dalish for whom she was scouting, but ones she least wanted to lay her sharp eyes on:

Templars.

Morrigan's lip curled in a sneer (though the reaction was purely mental as she was sporting a slim beak at the moment) at the waning sunlight glinting off their ridiculously impractical armor as they pushed forward along the mostly hidden path, taking little care to cloak the clamor of their boots; but she knew their senses, at least, would be casting about, probably lazily as the forest was emptily silent apart from usual woodland chatter, just enough to spare a modicum of caution.

Morrigan found she envied them bitterly for their lack of necessity to be as alert she forced herself to be at all times, and perhaps she even coveted the fact that they had one another for company.

_You're getting soft_, she snarled to herself. Morrigan hopped a little closer along the branch, trying to discern their purpose and she was surprised to catch sight of a bedraggled figure stumbling quietly in their midst, his dark blonde head dipped low against his chest. There was something familiar about his walk, the hunch of his broad shoulders beneath the thin tunic he wore …

Morrigan squawked in surprise at the same time he lifted his head warily, confirming the confused reaction in her gut.

Alistair.

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_Well, well, little Templar. What have you gotten yourself into now?_

Morrigan watched, intrigued, but no words passed between the templars and she found her curiosity hungry. Painstakingly discreet closer inspection revealed that Alistair's hands were bound tightly in front of him and a dark purple bruise marred his left temple along with a scattering of other markings in various stages of severity and healing that blemished exposed areas of his tanned skin. Morrigan licked her metaphorical lips at the unbidden remembrance off his warm flesh beneath her, the jerk of his hips lifting her body …

A warm flush crawled over her and Morrigan shook her head sharply to dispel the unwanted thoughts. She no longer had nor needed the privilege of unnecessary memories cluttering her awareness.

And yet she found that her curiosity was piqued as to just how Alistair had managed to land himself in such a clearly regrettable situation. If she had to surmise, Morrigan would guess it had to do with the queen now sitting atop the throne in Denerim; who else would dare turn a Hero of Ferelden over to the Chantry?

Her curiosity won out. Morrigan followed.

OoOoOoOo

She shadowed them for days down unfamiliar paths - strange, to her, for they had traversed much of Ferelden during the Blight yet she knew nothing of the way they traveled. The templars frequently consulted an old, worn map, and it was no comfort to Morrigan that they knew as little of their route as she did. As they journeyed she remained alert for the Dalish she sought, knowing she would in an instant abandon her one-time companion to the dubious mercies of the templars if there was any trace of the elves whose writings she sought.

For now of the Dalish there was no sign and so Morrigan continued to follow, though in her heart she was confused as to exactly why. It was a small blessing to be part of a group again, and she found she could sleep lightly when they camped, as safe as she could be within their lightly watchful circle. She rested when they rested and ate when they ate - and this was made easier by Alistair, for although his guards commented snidely on the warden's perceived weakness, they didn't stop him from feeding the raven that occasionally skittered into camp. He had seen her in this form before, but as there was an abundance of birds chittering in the forest she stood out not at all, and when she approached he obligingly shaved a few crumbs off of his own meager portion of stale bread to share with her. It was the closest she had come in a long time to shared companionship and Morrigan found herself unpleasantly bestirred by emotions she would rather ignore.

It was laughable that she _**almost**_ missed dinners 'round a campfire with the oddest collection of companions, chatting and laughing and bonding despite the seriousness of their quest. Always overhead was the knowledge of what they were doing, and had yet to accomplish, but somehow they were able to find pockets of levity within their exhausted nights. Morrigan herself rarely joined the others, preferring instead to pitch her tent far from the main campsite, but she had shared enough meals to find that a distasteful softening had occurred within her - toward the end, to her surprise, she had even come to think of Ishmael as a friend - a designation she had formerly been unfamiliar with.

OoOoOoOo

Morrigan soon discovered that the templars accompanying Alistair had not been instructed to be gentle with their prisoner; only, it appeared, to ensure that he reached their destination still breathing, if not much more than that.

She hopped carefully into their camp one evening after they'd ceased traveling for the night, once they had completed their evening chores of dinner and setting up camp and their evening's entertainment of tormenting the helpless Warden.

She could not say what compelled her to come closer on this night, for they beat him regularly and she chose not to intervene on those occasions; Morrigan could perhaps take on the four templars alone without breaking a sweat, but now there was her child to consider and she would risk no harm to the babe.

The sensible part of her mind demanded she leave the Warden to his fate, that he was no longer her concern and she might have listened for she was not so foolish as to say she _**liked**_ Alistair, but there was perhaps a certain fondness that existed between them - though 'fondness' was almost certainly too strong a word for the mutual tolerance they'd developed after many months of traveling together.

At least, there had been that tolerance once.

Before that night.

Though already well-versed in ways of the forest, Morrigan was yet naïve when it came to relationships and she honestly had not expected the Ritual to change anything between them; it was merely a business transaction, no more.

But something _**had**_ changed.

Of course, they had plunged into battle the next day, and Alistair had been grievously wounded when he'd killed the Archdemon. She had checked his battered body for signs of life but hadn't spoken with him before she'd departed following the battle, and she had preferred it that way.

He had not looked much worse then than he did now.

The templars had beat him senseless and left him on his side huddled on his blankets. One templar now sat off to the side of the fire, keeping watch, but she suspected he was alert more for external threats than to assure their prisoner remained in their custody: the Warden clearly would not get far even if he did manage to escape.

Morrigan watched, feeling unexpected stirrings of pity move across her. She had seen him in a bad way before - they had all had it rough during their travels, and she and Wynne had spent much time repairing cracked skulls and wrenched limbs, and all manner of gashes and bruises.

But this was different. _**He**_ was different.

In the flickering firelight, she could see that he looked sad beneath the dirt and blood. He looked … resigned.

She could not heal him, for the templars would surely notice - they would likely sense her shapeshifter spell if they cared to cast about attentively - but they struck her as more brutish than alert, despite Alistair's long-ago wry observance that the Chantry didn't make stupid Templars.

She skittered over to where he lay with his back to the small campfire, staying in the shadows for she had no wish to attract even a curious glance from the templar once again pondering over their map in the dim firelight.

Morrigan noted the rope cutting into Alistair's calf that was fastened to a stake plunged deep in the ground; small wonder they paid their prisoner so little attention once they were finished with him for the day - between the beatings and his tether, Alistair certainly wasn't going anywhere.

The lithe raven ducked carefully under the Warden's lax hand. His callused fingers - missing their fingernails, she noticed - automatically began stroking her fine feathers and she felt some annoyance erupting at the desire the simple motion triggered within her - it reminded her far too easily of _**that**_night.

One bloodshot hazel eye cracked open to squint at her blearily - the other was too swollen for the lids to slide back - and a small smile crossed his split lips. His voice, when it came, was not the honeyed tones she remembered sliding over her senses like a warm bath - when he spoke rather than whined - it was hoarse and the words cracked unpleasantly when he said them aloud, rising slightly in the middle before trailing off with a wheeze.

"Hey, kitty," he said faintly, his blood-encrusted fingers curling loosely against her soft back.

She rolled her golden eyes.

"It's nice to see you," he said sweetly, his voice barely a whisper and for that she was glad since it would scarcely attract the attention of the nearly-dozing templar on the other side of the camp. She couldn't answer him, and yet she felt strangely compelled to stay with him, to offer what little comfort she could to the man whose beloved had somehow convinced him to lay with the witch for a night, bringing about the culmination of Morrigan's purpose for joining their small party. She had thought about Ishmael at times since that night, and realized that she herself could not allow a man who claimed to love her lie with another woman, even under the pretext of saving their future.

Even as she cursed her softness - she had not escaped as unscathed from her encounter with the templar as she'd expected - she hopped up on his shoulder, combing through his short, sticky blonde hair with her beak.

Alistair breathed out a raspy sigh at her ministrations and continued stroking her feathers gently, somehow managing to find tenderness within even though he himself had been treated so cruelly. Morrigan was not surprised: she had often thought him gentle to the point of weak.

And now he was rubbing off on her. Wonderful. What _**was**_ she doing? She skittered away in disgust, intending to leave the campsite, but his soft, heart-rending keen at the loss of her presence froze her heart in a way she didn't want to contemplate.

Carefully, almost involuntarily, she tucked her small head back against his broad chest and felt his breathing settle down again.

_I am doing this for a friend,_ she told herself sternly. _Not out of weakness or misguided and unnecessary compassion._

She hoped the words weren't as hollow as they felt.

OoOoOoOo

On the thirteenth day she had been following them, they reached their journey's end. Tall grey walls rose high above the small party; guard towers with dim lights gleaming in the windows jutted out of the ground like crooked teeth.

Morrigan shuddered at the dark sense permeating the tall stone fortress, the unspeakable evil that whispered from within of a never-ending hunger for fresh blood. Even the templars with the small party shook in fear at the horrific wailing rising into the air when they stopped at the heavily bolted entrance of their destination:

The Aeonar:

The Mage's Prison.

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Morrigan _**is**_ a little more emotional than usual, yes, but I chalk that up to pregnancy. ;) Please review if you can!


	5. Blue Hotel

King Without A Castle

By: Syntyche

Four: Blue Hotel

They had traveled for days, for weeks, maybe; time remained a constant blur to the Warden whose existence now consisted of fitful bouts of rest snatched between endless marching and beatings. The Templars escorting him had one job, it seemed: to make sure Alistair could not escape, and they set upon it with such enthusiasm Alistair did not think he would ever live another pain-free day in his life even if they never touched him again.

They stopped at the massive doors to the Aeonar, and Alistair nearly rolled his swollen, squinting eyes at the stereotypical fog that shrouded the high, cold stone walls. _Spooooky. _He knew, however, that there would be nothing to smirk at here, no laughter emanating from within these icy shadows, only the pleading screams of the unlucky damned. The Mage's Prison was legendary, a tale told in the Chantry to frighten wayward boys and girls into memorizing the Chant, a threat harshly held overhead when normal scare tactics weren't quite enough to quiet childish chatter during class. Even beyond childhood, the fleshed-out whispers of being entombed with captured blood mages, and wraiths and demons that preyed and feasted on the souls trapped within the Aeonar, kept Chantry leashes tightly noosed and Circle mages mostly in line.

The walls rose high, disappearing beneath ever-dying russet leaves that hung limply and unnaturally still from deadening twisted branches. The dense yellow fog that had amused Alistair through his weary pain seemed almost alive, icily cold as it swirled around his feet and tried to steal the warmth already leeching from his body: frigid fingers grasping at him as though the occupants of the prison had turned to mist themselves and clutched for a long-lost savior from their suffering behind the stone.

The open-mouthed circle of Templars, no longer thuggish and self-assured, but quaking with chattering teeth, trembled as the black gate opened noisily in a loud and cruel calling out of the arrival of fresh blood: a hard shove with shaking hands against the small of Alistair's back was all they could manage to announce their presence and their young prisoner, the almost-king, was propelled into yawning darkness fighting to keep his balance and remain on his feet.

He wouldn't die here, but Alistair would soon wish he had.

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It wasn't completely dark inside, even after the heavy door behind him swung shut with a groaning thump and sealed him in. Unseen locks clattered into place as tumblers shifted and Alistair drew in a steadying breath, wincing at the pain shifting behind his bruised ribs and along the burning, festering lines curling around his chest and back. The air was thick, oppressive and rank, and it took more effort than it should have to fill his lungs and release a slow, hitching exhale past his teeth. He wasn't afraid, not yet, though the reaction of the Templars who'd escorted him here warned him that he should at the very least consider it.

But Alistair had seen more, experienced more in his young life than many men thrice his age, and the horrors that had filled his waking moments during the Blight were far beyond even the worst nightmares of the most hardened soldiers. There had been many nights he or Ishmael - or the both of them - had been too overcome by the atrocities they'd witnessed and had simply clung to each other, clasped together against the night but unable to close their eyes, to block out the fire and blood and terror and death they had rallied against that day.

In the dim light Alistair waited a moment for something to happen: a keeper or a guard to appear, a mysterious voice from the shadows directing him on. When nothing happened, he turned back and tried the entry door out of curiosity: he hadn't expected it to open, so he wasn't disappointed when it did not. Alistair felt out a hand for the nearest wall and began to follow the periphery, reasoning standing that, of course, if there was another exit, this was the simplest and best way to find it.

He made it two steps in before he felt a chill overtaking his skin, an icy creeping across flesh that was almost welcome at first as it soothed heated, throbbing areas bruised and torn by unyielding Templar gauntlets, but becoming less appreciated as it tightened the already aching efforts of his chest to draw in air and began to lock muscles long stiff and sore. His breathing slowed to stuttering gasps and Alistair leant his sweaty head against the arm he'd braced on the wall. Inexplicably, the faces of his old companions flashed quickly across his mind and he hoped they were safe, hoped his imprisonment here would buy their freedom though he had spent much time on the journey berating himself for what a fool he'd been to think Anora would keep her word to spare them if he confessed to treason and allowed her to put him away so completely. He hadn't been thinking clearly at the time, still raw and shamed from his encounter with Morrigan, and weary and wounded from the battle of Denerim; Anora had used his distraction to her full advantage to be rid of him. It hadn't mattered to his queen that he'd gratefully stepped aside, that he hadn't wanted to be king; he should have suspected trouble from her at the beginning and thought less of himself, as he'd often had to do, and more of the fallout of allowing her to remain queen. It had seemed such a simple decision, though, and _honestly_, Alistair sighed, it wasn't exactly easy to make grand, life-altering choices in an instant when your entire life up to that point had consisted of every single choice being made for you without anyone giving a damn as what you actually thought about it.

Perhaps he would have realized darker things were happening with Anora if he hadn't been too busy being self-absorbed and guilt-ridden. He might even have been clued in from Ishmael, if only Alistair could have shaken the unwarranted, aching feeling of betrayal every time they spoke. She'd begged him to follow through with Morrigan for _them_, and if he'd only been able to see it in simple black and white as she had, perhaps he wouldn't have been so cripplingly blinded by contrition for so long afterwards.

Forehead braced against his forearms, eyes closed, Alistair allowed himself the smallest half-smile. He was very good at carrying guilt and it seemed that here was no exception. And - _hooray for him! _- it looked like he would have plenty of time to dwell on his many shortcomings and failings.

The Warden shivered hard at another draft of bitter wind. Maker, it was getting so cold. Alistair shook his head sharply and prepared to move forward, feeling the stone carefully with splayed fingers chilled and numb.

To his surprise, the wall curved around until he found another door: he pushed and pulled against it, listened intently for traces of noise behind it, felt for air coming from beneath it, but there was nothing and Alistair realized there must be a magic seal in place for the door to be fortified so. Further exploration revealed that the anteroom was a small prison of its own: no light, no sound, nothing but his own labored breathing to break the unearthly silence.

Resigned, Alistair slid down to a seated position against the wall, curious and confused and wondering how long his captors intended for him to wait here, or if this was actually simply his new cell - and if this _was_ it, this unyielding boredom and solitude all there was to the fabled Aeonar, well, the _minute_ he was released from here he was definitely writing an open letter to Chantry schoolchildren about the misconception of the prison as terrifying and horrific while in actuality it was just a boring and cold and stinky sort of place.

Sadly, however, there was no misconstruction of the prison's purpose, and when Alistair's captors finally retrieved him from his deliberately solitary interment some three dark and horrid days later, the young Warden discovered that his true hell was about to begin.

OoOoOoOoOo

The entire prison made her uneasy in a way she couldn't place.

She wanted to cackle in enjoyment at the blatant fear of the boorish Templars accompanying Alistair, but surprisingly wisdom prevailed over open enjoyment and mocking of the foolish and Morrigan held her tongue, instead watching intently as Alistair was shoved through the opening and the door slammed shut behind him. She hadn't even considered entering the prison with him: too much danger lurked within for her to follow even if she cared to, and the witch certainly did not. Demons she had little problems with, but cast-off Circle mages? Disgusting.

Though perhaps she should be proud that the little bleating sheep must have grown a slice of backbone to be sentenced here thus so.

Morrigan had a brief moment to make a decision that she really did not even need to consider: the Templars were making a hasty retreat and though the witch had been annoyed and revolted by their brutality and stupidity, they _were_ a safer way of traveling than through these unknown paths alone.

An unwanted, quick swishing churn of regret was all she felt as she turned her back on the man who had saved her life many times and indeed fathered the child she strove so desperately to keep safe. She knew she was leaving him to a hellish fate he had somehow managed in his typically clumsy way to bring upon himself, yet she told herself that perhaps once she found the Dalish she sought she could pass a message on to Ishmael Cousland, or Leliana … anyone who may have cared a whit for Alistair's fate, perhaps, and they could charge in to save the foolish Warden.

Alistair would just have to survive until then.

… Though she had her doubts he would manage it.

A flutter of dark wings and she was gone.

OoOoOoOoOo

"So, as far as vacation spots go, I must say that this isn't very promising… I'm sorry if that lets you down, really, but as for your hospitality this place is _sorely_ lacking…"

Alistair was babbling; this, he was quite aware of.

It was simply a part of his nature, Arl Eamon's young wife used to tell him, like breathing (too loudly, but the dogs had never complained) and eating (too much, but since it was often rare after the arl's marriage Alistair had learned early to take advantage of proper meals) and he'd be lucky to ever be rid of the urge to chatter when he was shy or nervous. In the end, it had turned out that it was just easier to be rid of him than to expect him to change and he'd been duly shipped off to the Chantry. Better, perhaps, than sleeping with the dogs, but after his first few canings for talking (too enthusiastically, but the silence otherwise was so _oppressive_) and questioning (too much, but so little of it made sense or had even seemed practical), Alistair had certainly begun to wonder miserably which he'd prefer if he'd even had the choice. At least the dogs had liked him.

He'd often thought he might just choose to run away, but his teachers hadn't hesitated to use the threat of sending bad little orphans off to the Mages' Prison to keep him in line and in his chair. He'd been smart enough to realize that a prison for magic users was not a good place for a Templar to be and had stayed put in his hated Chantry schooling, only leaving the Chantry - joyfully, unquestioningly, with a profound sense of relief - when Duncan had conscripted him into the Grey Wardens. Not because he'd been the best, of course, but he'd moved on happily without bothering to question the Warden's motivations, and he'd only looked back dutifully when Duncan had suggested he keep up with his Templar studies. The request had served him well, even though it was partially the reason he was here - couldn't let the official Templars know one could still holy smite the hell out of a magic user even when not addicted to lyrium. Alistair knew he would be forever grateful to Duncan for taking the few things of his training that had brought him some small happiness and having him focus on those.

Alistair had known there would not be Templars patrolling these desolate and godless halls of the Aeonar, but he hadn't actually stopped to consider what _would_…

The Warden closed his eyes and swallowed hard as a ghostly touch prodded at him again; beyond merely icy, the frigid fingers slipped through his shirt, through skin and sinew as he was moved forward. All around him was agony: welling up from tortured, twisted beings wrapped around themselves in a vain attempt to keep the monsters out; in the screams of those who only _wished_ they were dying, begging for an escape from the constant torment; in the moans of the starving, those seeking flesh or food to fill the emptiness gnawing at them. The wraiths and demons that stalked these halls fed on them all, stole their sanity in driveling bits as they cried for a release that would never come, a merciful death they would never be granted because the benevolent, merciful Chantry had found a way to stretch simple anguish into unending suffering.

"So, what do you do for fun around here?" Alistair asked lamely, the babbling kicking in again after his momentary lapse into introspection. He'd been in solitary confinement for three days, after all, and though his voice was hoarse now, scraping up from his dry throat, it still brought him some measure of comfort to speak aloud, to take away from the grimness of the situation with a wry comment or a silly remark. It was an exasperating trait of his he'd looked on with some bitter deprecation, but most of his colleagues - save Sten and Shale, and Morrigan of course - had somehow found endearing. "Is there a game night, or maybe a welcoming ceremony - " Alistair snapped his mouth shut as he was grazed by the icy touch again, this time at the base of his skull just below the edges of his tawny hair. The shudder that gripped him lasted a little longer, his shields quailed a little harder, and Alistair straightened his back against the onslaught even as he realized that, just like the poor tormented souls surrounding him, he wouldn't hold out for long against the continued assault. He was fairly certain the Arcane Horror drifting at his back was smiling in its wicked way and he did his best to ignore it.

As he had often in the past several days of traveling and waiting and suffering, Alistair thought of his friends, wondered if he'd spared them at all from an unhappy fate at Anora's hands. He thought of Ishmael, pictured her short red hair sliding through his fingers as he soothed her to sleep in the dark of night. His fingers twitched unconsciously at the memory, a futile recreation of a gesture now denied. Loneliness overwhelmed him, and he found himself missing his lover, missing Leliana's bright smile and sweet voice, missing Wynne's indomitable mothering and amused scolding.

Would they ever find him? Would they even know where to look?

Alistair hung his head, grit his teeth, and marched on.

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If you had a minute to read this, reviews are adored and appreciated! :D


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